


We Hang Past Right and Wrong

by blackteaonesugar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Tease (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Hair Kink, Hedonist Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Apocalypse, Slight Wing Kink, Those Damn Sock Garters, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackteaonesugar/pseuds/blackteaonesugar
Summary: Aziraphale knows he's indulged in far too many of the Deadly Sins during his time on Earth. Food, drink, fine clothes, the works.  He's lusted over Crowley for ages, but has never acted on it.But now, after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, it finally happens.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 104





	We Hang Past Right and Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Slight deviation from show ending - Bentley and bookshop are restored by Adam much earlier, and they drive back to London that night. 
> 
> My first fic in this fandom - let me know how you like it! Thanks!
> 
> Title comes from 'I'm Sticking With You' by The Velvet Underground

Aziraphale was nothing if not contrary. 

Of course, angels as a rule aren’t encouraged to be inconsistent in their thoughts, opinions, and actions. Aziraphale had really tried to stick to the status quo over the years, to be God’s representative on Earth, to not do what was Not To Be Done. But perhaps living amongst the human race for so long had influenced him, he often mused, and besides, Head Office expected him to ‘blend in’ with humanity. So yes, perhaps he had become a bit of a gastronome, and a bit of a debonair, and a bit of a contrarian - all things that could be examples of gluttony or pride or greed - but these were all insignificant things to be, he reasoned, as long as he stuck to his mission and followed The Great Plan. God certainly hadn’t told him _not_ to to enjoy good food or gorgeous things or diametric thoughts, anyway. He was just doing his job. 

Example one: He shunned most forms of modern technology (saying that anything with a screen made him tetchy, and couldn't humans communicate by fountain pen and paper, like _normal?_ ), but could not resist his early-2000s iPod full of classical music. It was like a gramophone he could carry with him, he argued (though no one had asked), and what was wrong with that? Whether it be at an auction of old and rare books or just a quick stroll down to the local bakery, he delighted in being able to listen to his favorite concertos whenever he desired. 

Example two: He prided (no, that wasn’t the right word for it … what was it he had once said?) … he liked to look nice, and he _had standards._ He felt comfortable in waistcoats, bow ties and braces, and, having found the perfect pair of cream-colored trousers sometime in the late 1800s, had had his tailor make five pairs of them so he’d never run out (better safe than sorry, he thought, a human expression he enjoyed immensely). 

But buried in a trunk in the bottom of a cabinet in the barely-used flat above the bookshop was a pair of bell bottom jeans, acquired from a secondhand shop in the 1970s. He had only worn them twice since purchasing them, and never around anyone else - but he knew he would never get rid of them. Having them around, having the _option_ to dress in such a contradictory way, gave him a sense of glee. 

Example three: As one of the (former) Principalities of Heaven, he had devoted his time on Earth to doing God’s work. 

He had done his job, and done it quite well (with but a few reprimands over the years, and that to-do with the flaming sword he’d rather soon forget), but in the meantime, he’d fallen in love with a demon. 

He hadn’t fallen in love with any old demon, mind you. Most demons he had had experience with (blessedly, there were few) reveled in having horrific, putrefying bodies, taking pleasure in how the sight and smell of them could make eyes water and plants wither. Most demons delighted in tempting, seducing, meddling with, and generally bothering humans - it was their job, after all, and they were happy to do it. Your garden-variety demon had no problem with blood, gore, and filth, and surrounded themselves with such.

His demon though … _his_ demon was different. (Another contrarian thing about the angel; he espoused freedom of will and thought and body, but privately thought of the demon as _his_. (Perhaps he even felt a twinge of jealousy when he listened to his demon’s stories of his mischievousness, but that was neither here nor there.)

His demon was tall and lithe, with amber eyes and sharp cheekbones, and the most striking auburn hair. Oh, how Aziraphale loved his demon’s hair; he could stare at it for hours at a time (and had been almost caught doing so more than he cared to remember). He’d watched the styles change throughout the centuries: delighted in the soft, loose curls from Golgotha, cringed at the stiff pouf of the French Revolution, and had to tamp down the literal _aching_ _to touch_ when his demon had shown up one day in the early 2000s with a casual, unfussed topknot. His demon had always worn black, in whatever was the fashion at the time (and he always wore what was fashionable, without fail), but for the past twenty years or so his wardrobe had mostly consisted of skinny jeans, black T-shirt’s, and black jackets. When dressing up, he preferred moderately unbuttoned dress shirts with skinny ties - which, Aziraphale had not failed to notice, only accentuated his smooth, white throat. 

Aziraphale’s demon did not delight in blood or pain or misery. He was still a demon, of course, and his job was to incite discord among humans - but his tricks leaned less towards murder and arson, and more towards creating traffic jams, shutting down power grids during much-anticipated televised sporting events, and encouraging impure thoughts in the people he met in various bars, taverns, and watering holes across the centuries. Just planting the seed of doubt was enough for him, he never followed through with any of the humans he set out to tempt. “It’s not my place,” he had explained to the angel once, “they’ll figure out the rest of it on their own.” 

And that was the main difference between Aziraphale’s demon, and all of the others: he actually _liked_ humans. 

Aziraphale and Crowley (for that was his demon’s name, him of the amber eyes and impeccable fashion sense) had had innumerable conversations over the centuries about how positively delightful it was to be on Earth, in human bodies, and experience the vast breadth of human history and experience. Humans really did get up to some marvelous things, they agreed, and were particularly creative in different ways to make their lives easier and more enjoyable **.** Aziraphale’s favorite human invention was the printing press, of course, while Crowley couldn’t decide which was better - a bottle of exceptional scotch, or LP records.

Their meetings often consisted of all three - lounging on the overstuffed armchairs in Aziraphale’s bookshop, imbibing in various alcohols, the gramophone playing whatever the two wanted (switching between symphonies and classic rock at a snap of their fingers), surrounded by thousands of works of literature. Aziraphale detested Crowley’s sparse, dark flat, and felt sorry for his bookshop if he left it alone for too long, while Crowley liked any excuse to drive the Bentley … so it worked out nicely for both of them. There had been times when days had gone by without either of them leaving the bookshop, their conversations and rants and debates punctuated by Crowley kipping on the otherwise-unused bed upstairs for snatches of sleep while Aziraphale read and drank endless cups of Earl Grey. (Another marvelous invention, tea. Aziraphale was quite proud of human’s ingenuity.) 

Theirs was a comfortable, easy sort of friendship, the kind that had lasted for thousands of years nearly unchanged (besides a few adjustments to the Agreement and several hundred years where they saw nothing of one another) and could probably have lasted for thousands more … if only Aziraphale hadn’t fallen (how do the humans say it?) head-first in love with Crowley. Crowley, who had been sent from Downstairs to do the exact opposite of the angel’s job. Crowley, who had been an angel, been like Aziraphale, then Fallen. Crowley, who had literally _originated_ Original Sin, everything the angel fought against. 

And yet … and yet.

* * *

After Crowley had mechanically and silently driven them back to London, in the car that had literally been driven through hellfire but miraculously (if that word could be used when applied to the Antichrist’s actions) restored, they had parked outside the bookshop and then just … sat there. 

Crowley turned off the engine and slumped forward, his forehead on the steering wheel.

“ _Fuck_ , angel.” He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face, his eyes squeezed shut. 

Aziraphale, who was unphased by the expletive, simply nodded, staring at his folded hands in his lap. What was there to say? His mind was a tangle of emotions and questions: ‘What happens now? Who do I trust? What is expected of us?’ He knew that there was no reason to blurt out these anxieties, not right now. Right now, he just wanted to be with his demon, in whatever way he could. There was plenty of time to fret about the future- they had all the time in the world after what had happened, didn’t they?

Considering this, and then steeling himself for Crowley’s reaction, he took his hand and carefully placed it on the back of Crowley’s neck, watching his demon’s face. 

Crowley’s eyes shot open with what looked like momentary panic, though Aziraphale had barely lifted his hand when the demon, still looking down, whispered a muffled “No, s’okay.” Crossing his arms over the steering wheel and resting his forehead on them, he again closed his eyes. Aziraphale could see the muscles in his jaw tense ever so slightly, which meant he was grinding his teeth again (a bad habit that he had never been able to kick). Though the angel normally tutted him for doing this, he felt that the situation more than called for a slight anxious tic. The angel was feeling quite the bundle of nerves himself. 

So Aziraphale placed his hand again very gently on the back on his demon’s neck, and after a minute or two of nothing but quiet breathing from the two of them and the muffled sounds of the busy London evening outside and the spatter of rain on the windows, he began to move his thumb ever so slightly over Crowley’s soft skin. Back and forth, languidly, without saying a word. Watching his demon’s face for the slightest reaction. Aziraphale watched as his jaw stopped clenching and his lips parted, and it seemed that some of his tension released in the form of a very long sigh. 

Then Crowley sat up, abruptly. 

Aziraphale’s hand flew back to his lap, his heart beating rapidly, and he felt himself lean sideways, as if to put more space between him and his demon. Oh, bless it, what had he done?!

Crowley’s amber eyes, somehow perfectly clear despite the shadowy interior of the car, riveted onto the angel’s sky blue ones. His body angling towards the angel, Aziraphale took in his furrowed brow and his impossibly wide eyes and wracked his brain for something, _anything_ , to say. 

“Angel, what _are_ you doing?” Crowley questioned. 

Aziraphale gulped, trying and failing to take in enough air. His hands fluttered to his jacket, adjusting nothing, trying to buy himself a moment of time. What _had_ he been doing? Did he think this was the appropriate moment to touch Crowley more intimately than he had ever touched him in his life? Should he tell the truth? No, of course he would, there was never any doubt that he would always tell his demon the truth. He was an angel, after all. 

“Comforting you?” he looked up and whispered, shrugging. His mind finished the rest of the sentence, though it was unspoken: ‘comforting you, because we both have had the most harrowing day of our lives, and I am in love with you and never want you to feel unsafe again.’

A perfectly manicured eyebrow went up, and the edges of Crowley’s eyes crinkled as a slight smile appeared on his face. Aziraphale simply could not stand looking into those beautiful eyes a second longer; if he looked any longer his demon might be able to read the emotions that he was sure were written plain on his face. He looked down again, tamping down the smile that mirrored Crowley’s own, and fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch until his demon spoke.

“I’m sorry, ‘Zira.” (The angel’s heart, which was still beating much faster than normal, seemed to skip a beat when Crowley called him this.) “I’m just…” He gestured expansively, an exasperated look on his face, one shoulder hitching up in a helpless motion. Another long sigh. A beat. The angel didn’t dare take a breath or meet his eyes. Then, finally: “Fancy a drink?” Crowley asked.

Once the bookshop door was open, Crowley made a beeline for the globe that concealed various bottles of liquor, and poured himself a scotch. He downed it in a trice and poured another. “What’re you having, angel?” he called over his shoulder, checking the labels of the various wines that he knew Aziraphale preferred to hard liquor. “Red or white?” 

Aziraphale, who was still standing at the front doors of the bookshop, one hand on the brass doorknob and the other holding the key, said nothing. He stared at the polished wood of the floor, thoughts racing. How could he be feeling so many different emotions in such a short space of time? He couldn’t seem to grasp what had just happened, and whether Crowley was actually okay with it. His demon had told him that it was, that touching him like that could continue, and then all of the sudden he had abruptly made sure that Aziraphale wasn’t touching him any more. Could he feel the intensity of his adoration emanating from his touch; did it make him uncomfortable or scared? The speed in which his demon had gotten to the door and then raced to the bottle of scotch made the angel wonder if he was actually nervous. What was going to happen now? 

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice was nearer now, and Aziraphale started out of his musings, looking up and seeing his demon standing next to him, eyeing him worryingly, his angular body leaning against a bookshelf. “What’s going on?” 

And suddenly Aziraphale made up his mind after almost 6,000 years of debate. Dropping his keys and standing on his toes (for of course Crowley couldn’t _just_ be pale and sharp and breathtaking, he had to be tall and willowy as well), the angel reached up and cupped his demon’s face in his hands. Crowley’s eyes widened, his mouth parting as if he was about to say something - but whatever it was was cut short as Aziraphale pressed his lips to his. 

A crystal-cut glass of scotch shattered onto the floor. 

Instantly, the nervous tension that wracked Aziraphale’s body (and had since at least 1941) seemed to rush out of him. The angel felt Crowley tense, for just a moment when their lips met, and then hands flew into his curls, and his demon was kissing him back, and there were no words in any language, Earthly, Enochian or otherwise, that could describe how _right_ the kiss felt. Aziraphale’s hands slid down Crowley’s neck to rest at the base of his throat and he felt his demon’s rapid pulse under his fingertips. _Mine, mine, mine_ , he thought to himself, and then Crowley pushed him roughly against the door and took the angel’s bottom lip in his teeth, and every thought flew out of Aziraphale’s head.

It could have been minutes or hours later, during which time Aziraphale finally learned exactly how fantastic this so-called ‘French kissing’ was, and how delicious his demon’s forked tongue felt inside his mouth, when Crowley did something that gave the angel a rush of sensation so strong he gasped and had to pull his head back. 

Crowley’s fingernails had suddenly dug into the angel’s scalp, and at the same time he had moaned Aziraphale’s name and snapped his hips forward, grinding into the angel’s own. It was as if a rush of molten liquid had pooled in Aziraphale’s belly and flowed straight into his groin, and was like nothing the angel had ever felt before - not in the many many millennia he had inhabited this soft and cozy body. He could feel goosebumps pop up on his skin, and his hands began to tremble where they had settled on Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley stilled at the angel’s movement, his hands moving to rest on the angel’s shoulders, and he smiled softly at Aziraphale with kiss-swollen lips. “Am I going too fast for you?” Aziraphale could feel a prickly heat travel up his face and stared at where his hand rested on Crowley’s chest, feeling the beating heart beneath, willing himself to calm down. He shook his head and tried to come up with words to explain why he had been so startled at this rush of feeling, but could find nothing to say.

They were both breathing heavily, and he watched his demon’s chest rise and fall, noticing (certainly not for the first time) the smattering of chest hair visible from his open collar. He slowly breathed in and out, and then tentatively traced his finger down past his demon’s collarbone. 

Yes, his body was doing all kinds of new things, and yes, it was somewhat frightening. But Aziraphale wanted to see all of Crowley, wanted to see everything his demon would allow him to, wanted to peel off those dark clothes and marvel at the pale skin beneath. The thought, tamped down for so long, sent another molten-liquid feeling throughout his body. He was allowed to feel this way, he told himself. There was nothing wrong with it. And best of all, it seemed that his demon felt the same. 

He finally looked up at Crowley, both sets of their eyes gleaming and wide. Aziraphale reached up and placed his hand over one of his demon’s, rubbing his thumb softly over the fingers that had recently been gripping his hair. “Well,” he breathed out, relieved that he had stopped trembling and at the same time relishing the way a simple touch from him made his demon look so utterly undone. “Shall we go have a drink on the settee, my dear?” 

* * *

Now it was the angel’s turn to gulp down a glass of scotch before pouring himself another one. Feeling Crowley’s eyes on his back, he turned around to find him looking positively _delectable_ \- his face flushed and hair mussed, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, one arm resting on the top of the couch, holding his drink, and the other on his thigh, tapping his fingers (was it Aziraphale’s imagination, or did his demon’s lip quirk up slightly when he noticed the angel glance at his thigh?). He stood for a moment and just took in Crowley, who didn’t seem to mind; rather, he drank in the angel’s gaze and then gently patted the spot next to him. 

“Come sit down?” he said in a voice that was quiet but heavy with feeling.

Aziraphale sat down carefully next to Crowley, scooting closer when he suddenly realized that he didn’t have to distance himself from his demon anymore (as he had been careful to do over the years, and what a novel thing that he could actually touch him now, with affection that was not just careful friendliness). The relief on Crowley’s face was palpable when the angel reached for his demon’s bottom lip and very slowly dragged his thumb across it. Aziraphale took a sip of his drink but left his thumb there, carefully watching his demon’s face. He’d wanted to do this for _so_ long - Crowley’s mouth had always captivated him, with his rounded lips and just-too-sharp canines. After a moment, a forked tongue flicked out and gently licked the angel’s thumb, and Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, releasing a moan with the sheer pleasure of it. 

Crowley snapped his fingers, and suddenly their drinks were miracled away. “That’s it, angel.” He stated, voice straining. Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open and immediately Crowley grabbed his lapels and pulled him in for a deep, intense kiss. The tangle of tongues and teeth, while feeling so blessedly _perfect_ , also brought that goosebump-inducing, blazing-liquid feeling that had so surprised the angel earlier. When Crowley moved to angle his body closer to the angel, Aziraphale’s words rushed out: 

“My dear, I don’t know how to say exactly how lovely this feels, but this is all very new to me and I am feeling all these things and I don’t know what to think and …” he sputtered and stopped, feeling embarrassed and more than a little frustrated. He _knew_ about human emotions and feelings, of course, he knew that bodies reacted certain ways to certain stimuli, he had read many books on these things … but there was a difference between _knowing_ something and _feeling_ it. 

His whole body felt flushed, even his brain felt effervescent, and when Crowley had pressed his hips into his own, it was very obvious that they were both feeling the same way. Not only that, but every time Crowley looked at him, Aziraphale had the intense, overwhelming desire to just _pounce_ on him. Angels weren’t violent - it went against their very nature - so this simple fact that the angel wanted to grab his demon and _ravage_ him made him feel … well, was this what humans felt all the time? How did they handle it? 

“Wait, angel. You’re saying you enjoy this, what we’re doing, right?” Crowley gestured between the two of them, and Aziraphale nodded emphatically, though his eyebrows were drawn together worryingly. 

“Right, so …” Crowley grinned deliciously - and there it was again, that devouring feeling that the angel had no idea what to do with - and then asked, “But this is the first time you’ve felt like this, and you’re not sure of what to do with that? And what happens next? Am I understanding correctly?” 

Of course his demon knew exactly how he was feeling, the angel thought, relieved. “Yes,” he shrugged, and then took Crowley’s hand. “Is this what lust is? It’s different from the love I am used to feeling - not wrong, but different … like it’s layered on top of what I’m already feeling, and so intensely. I don’t know what to do with my body, and I know I should trust it, I’m just …” He sighed. Human bodies, and emotions, were so finicky sometimes (all times, really). “Does that make sense?” 

Crowley took the hand that was not softly grasping Aziraphale’s own **,** and cupped the angel’s cheek. Aziraphale found himself leaning into his touch, almost nuzzling himself against his demon’s hand. “This is the first time I’ve felt like this, too.” Crowley said, his eyes soft, pupils no longer blown wide, though the angel felt sure that that could be changed in no time. “And I don’t exactly know what I’m doing either, but I feel like between us, we can figure it out? If you’re willing to try? As slow as you want to go. Whatever you want, angel.”

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asked, and when his demon squeezed his hand and nodded in response, there was nothing for the angel to do but, well, _pounce._

Aziraphale had never before heard the growl that came out Crowley’s mouth when he pushed him flat onto the sofa, miracled away the various pillows so he could straddle his demon’s legs, and licked a line from his jawline to his chest. The sound that came from his demon’s throat was raw, vulnerable, and made the angel feel completely undone. He smiled against Crowley’s neck, breathing in his scent (a mixture of metal, gunsmoke, and engine oil) and ran his tongue to the delicious vee of Crowley’s shirt, taking extra care to gently nibble along his clavicles that were peeking out. His demon’s hands in his hair tightened into fists and he breathed out, “Fuuuck … ‘Zira, you’re going to kill me if you keep doing that.” 

Aziraphale, whose hands were busy gripping his demon’s frame, fitting his fingers between the spaces of his ribs, scolded Crowley, “Now dear, it would take an _awful_ lot more work on my part to discorporate you. I think some kissing isn’t going to do the trick.” His nails dug into the fabric of his demon’s shirt and he gave the hollow of his throat a gentle nip, delighting at the drag of teeth on the skin. 

Crowley huffed out a laugh, and when Aziraphale looked at his demon’s face, he was surprised to see the brilliant amber eyes looking back at him. “Have you been watching me this whole time?” he asked, hands finally under Crowley’s shirt, slowly ghosting up his sides, feeling his demon’s chest expand. Watching his face as his fingertips inched towards Crowley’s nipples: his demon actually bit his lip, his eyebrows in a ‘v’ of frustration (or was that anticipation?), nostrils flaring as he waited for the angel to touch him in the sensitive spot. “I like looking at you, angel.” Crowley said, in a moan stifled as Aziraphale’s hands stilled. “You’re beautiful.” 

His demon had never called him that before. In fact, no one had ever said that about him. Aziraphale was generally satisfied with the human form he had been given - though sometimes he wished he wasn’t so soft - but had never considered himself beautiful. Hearing Crowley call him that stirred a new feeling in his chest, and he reached up to frame his demon’s face in his hands (he was doing that a lot tonight, he realized, but perhaps he was just making up for lost time), blurting out the first thing that came to his mind: “I love you, Crowley.” 

Crowley blinked and propped himself up on elbows, and Aziraphale’s hands slid down again, resting on his demon’s hips. There was a moment of silence. The angel was sure that that had been the right thing to say, because it was true, and his conviction of the fact had been so intense in that moment that it would have been an affront to himself and his demon and God Herself if he had not said what he meant. The angel’s words hung in the air and Crowley smiled at him, and when Aziraphale smiled back he placed his hands over the angel’s and replied, voice barely above a whisper: “And I love you, angel.” 

All Aziraphale could think to do was kiss Crowley, deeper and more frantically than before, and slowly grind his hips down into his demon’s lap. The feelings - passion, lust, forgiveness, release, and overwhelmingly, _love_ \- seemed to spill out from his skin, and there was no stopping it. He wanted so many things, had wanted these things for so long. He wanted to kiss Crowley until they both were exhausted, he wanted to feel his cool skin against his own, he wanted to pleasure him until he couldn’t speak, could only gasp and shiver under his touch.

There was no ignoring it, they both were hard, and the friction made Crowley’s head snap back, his eyelids fluttering. “ _Fuuuuck…_ ” he moaned, as his hips moved in kind, and for a moment they both rutted against one another, the tender moment turning into something more tameless.

It was an intensely strange feeling to Aziraphale, having an erection (there wasn’t much he thought his body hadn’t done, after inhabiting it for 6,000 years), but he had assumed this would eventually happen. He knew how human bodies were supposed to work, and what would happen if they continued to grind against one another. And that just simply wouldn’t do - there was far too much Aziraphale knew he absolutely needed to do to Crowley before that happened. 

“Right!” He pulled himself away from the line of kisses he was peppering along Crowley’s neck. “Upstairs.” It took a great deal of effort to stop what he was doing, as his demon’s ragged breathing and fluttering eyelashes was making him feel extremely possessive **.** Nevertheless, he sat up, willing his body to calm down (read: his trousers not to be so bloody tight), and if that constituted a small miracle, well, that would be quite a memo his superiors would have to read later. (Did he still have superiors, after the Apocadidn’t? That was something to ponder later, he decided.) 

Crowley opened his eyes fully and uttered huskily, voice thick with lust, “Are you _tempting_ me, angel?” Aziraphale glanced Heavenward, instinctually, then back at Crowley underneath him, whose hands had moved to begin slowly unbuttoning the buttons on the angel’s waistcoat. “I suppose I am, you fiend. And it appears those Upstairs aren’t paying attention, so … up we pop, dear.” He gave his demon a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw and then patted his cheek, pointedly staring into those wide golden eyes. “Yes?” 

They untangled themselves from one another, Aziraphale running his hands down his partially-unbuttoned waistcoat, Crowley fussing with his mussed hair. As they stood up, Aziraphale glanced at Crowley - it appeared that he had done the same thing as the angel had, as it would have been quite uncomfortable for both of them to wear trousers for any longer in that state. (He had a feeling that they would not have to worry about the particular issue for much longer - the thought sent a thrill through him, and he grinned to himself.) 

He took one of his demon’s hands and began to lead him up the spiral staircase. Of course, Crowley knew where to go (he spent more time up there than the angel), but Aziraphale was feeling a burst of confidence that he wanted to make last for as long as possible. His mind was reeling from the knowledge that Crowley not only accepted his feelings, but _returned_ them - and it filled him with such ecstatic glee that he could finally act on the feelings that had caused him so much misery for so long. He was sure of himself, of Crowley, of what would happen tonight and for the rest of their nights. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. 

Crowley, trailing behind him, squeezed the angel’s hand several times as if to remind the angel that he was still there, and snapped his fingers to turn off the lights in the bookshop below. The music on the gramophone changed from Schubert to ( _of course,_ Aziraphale thought) what sounded like the best of Queen. 

“You’re nothing if not predictable.” the angel commented to Crowley, a smile in his voice, and the demon replied, his voice still raspy with lust (which sent shivers down Aziraphale’s spine): “I know what I like, angel.” 

They had reached the landing, which separated into several doors along a hallway - one leading to the kitchen, another to the lavatory, and the third to the bedroom. The bedroom that Aziraphale only ever stepped foot into when Crowley was fast asleep under the down comforter and the angel would stand in the doorway and watch him sleep, his heart full to bursting with feelings he thought he would never get to explore. And now, he thought, they were both going in, _together_ , and things would never be the same afterwards. And thank Someone for that. 

* * *

Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s waistcoat again and leaned in to kiss the angel, whose hands were suddenly occupied with pulling on his demon’s tie, and without realizing, walking backwards through the bedroom door. The tangle of hands and lips were only interrupted when Aziraphale bumped into the edge of the bed and huffed in surprise, sitting down heavily, as the smirking demon tugged the angel’s waistcoat off and flung it onto the nearby chair. 

“ _Crowley_!” 

The demon winced, realizing his mistake a second too late. “Oh, blast it, I’m sorry angel.” He leaned over to pick up the waistcoat, folded it neatly, and placed it gently on the armchair, looking at Aziraphale with a concerned (but faintly cheeky) look on his face while doing so. “Is that alright? I do know how particular you are about your clothes.” 

Aziraphale smiled and nodded, because he hadn’t had to say much for his demon to realize what he had meant. (Vanity was a sin, _he knew,_ but he’d kept that waistcoat in near-perfect condition for almost two hundred years and he wasn’t going to start throwing it around now.) “Yes, thank you. I do love you, you know.” A beat, as his demon beamed a positively enraptured smile at him. “Now, come here.” He hooked his fingers into Crowley’s belt loops and tugged his demon onto the bed. 

They both fell onto the plush comforter and then, as if by unspoken agreement, quickly got to their knees and began unbuttoning each other’s shirts. Aziraphale could tell when Crowley was about to miracle the buttons open, his fingers about to snap, and quickly put his hand over his to prevent it - “Darling, no more miracles tonight. I want us to just be us. Every moment deliberate and conscious. Is that alright?” 

Crowley’s expression softened and a hand moved from the angel’s shirt to his soft curls, tucking a particularly unruly one away. “Of course, angel.” he agreed. “I like that idea very much.” 

So when Aziraphale continued unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt, taking his time to run his fingers along his chest as he did so, Crowley watched him instead, shivering under Aziraphale’s touch. The angel took his time with this; he felt that every moment of tonight was sacred. He wanted to remember the way his fingers felt on Crowley’s skin, but more importantly, he wanted his demon to feel the love radiating from his body, and for him to feel as glorious and beloved as his demon made him feel. 

Aziraphale slowly slid his hands upwards over Crowley’s chest, his palms grazing over his nipples, and he delighted at his demon’s slight hiss as he sucked his teeth. Continuing upwards, he ghosted his hands up to Crowley’s shoulders and gently tugged off his shirt, folding it neatly on the bed next to them. And then, as he took in his demon’s pale chest and the goosebumps that were forming on his arms, he let his demon do the same to him. Soon, his shirt and singlet were off as well, folded on top of Crowley’s own, and both of them were looking at one another with something akin to wonder in their expressions. 

“You really are beautiful, angel.” Crowley softly said, slender fingers running through the golden hair on his chest, and Aziraphale felt his chest constrict, love threatening to overwhelm him. He knew he would never get over his demon saying that to him. 

Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders and kissed him, moving from his lips to the soft underside of his neck, and rubbing his hands softly over the soft skin of his back. Then, he kneaded his hands into the space between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades and the angel audibly gasped. And … yes, there it was - that pesky human reaction. 

A wicked smile sprung onto Crowley’s face (for how close they were, it was impossible not to notice) and his fingers dug into the space again, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop a moan from escaping. “Oh!” he exclaimed, meriting a salacious chuckle from Crowley. “That’s a new feeling.” When his demon caught his eyes, he nodded quickly and confirmed the question reflected in them: “Yes, it’s a _good_ feeling, darling. Just … oh, _my_.” 

Crowley shifted his attention from Aziraphale’s face to his neck, nuzzling into it with his suddenly-sharper teeth. Aziraphale was running his thumbs through the line of hair that led into Crowley’s trousers, reveling in the sheer pleasure of all these new feelings he was experiencing. His trousers, meanwhile, were getting tighter by the second. He hoped they were coming off soon (and reflexively chided himself for the thought, then immediately discounted it - these feelings were good, and pure, and absolutely _right_.)

An itch - no, it wasn’t exactly that, but a compulsion of some sort, a _need_ , had begun to grow in that space between his shoulders. Every time his demon touched his back, running his fingers over his shoulder blades and between, the feeling grew. A sort of effervescent itch - it was impossible to describe. His wings had only made an appearance a handful of times over the past few centuries, as Aziraphale had become accustomed to living with as much of a human appearance as possible. He barely thought about them and had had no reason to, and except for the brief moment earlier that evening, had not actually manifested them in several hundred years. But now … now he was definitely paying attention. Because for the first time, he knew his wings wanted to materialize. 

His fingers twitched over Crowley’s hipbones, and a strangled sound came from his throat as he opened his mouth to speak and instead felt that rush of _need_ grow ever stronger, practically choking him. 

“Darling, would you mind if I…?” he managed to say, kneading his fingers into the sharp angles of Crowley’s hips. 

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted him, catching Aziraphale’s chin in his hand and directing his brilliant gaze into those crystal blue eyes. “I want to see _all_ of you.” 

And with that, Aziraphale closed his eyes and _willed_ his wings into existence. There was a soft _whump_ sound as they spread and stretched the length of the room, and the angel cried out, for as he had released his wings, his demon had (after much scraping of teeth against skin) finally gently sank his teeth into the space where neck and shoulder met. The two feelings combined (the release of his wings and the sharp pain and pleasure of his demon’s mouth) compelled him to fairly _shove_ Crowley onto his back. 

And then it was frantic hands at trouser buttons, awkward shuffling to get said trousers _off_ _as soon as possible_ , muffled laughter and groans between kisses, and a frustrated Crowley trying his damndest to remove the angel’s sock garters (“ _Sock garters?! Why the hell…?”_ ) and failing miserably at it. And then his demon was propped up against the headboard among a crowd of pillows and Aziraphale’s fingers were hooked into his boxer briefs, while he shivered in anticipation and gripped both hands into the soft comforter. Crowley’s eyes were blown wide with lust and his teeth bit down on his lower lip as the angel reached down and palmed the hard line of his erection, taking more time than strictly necessary. Aziraphale’s wings shivered slightly, almost as if externalizing his staggering feelings of love and yes, lust. A whole Heaven-load of lust. 

Crowley’s eyes squeezed shut and he squirmed, faintly whining in anticipation. Aziraphale smiled, and though he had been wondering what exactly he should do next (besides tease his demon some more, because goodness, he did _quite_ enjoy it), he made another rapid-fire decision. 

He moved down his demon’s body, peppering kisses along the way, and by the time he made it to Crowley’s waistband, slowly running his tongue down the line of hair while inching his briefs down, Crowley’s frustration was palpable. 

"'Zira, you teasssse…” he hissed, and Aziraphale grinned wickedly, because the fact of the matter was that delaying his demon his pleasure in order to work him up to a state of frenzy was positively delightful, much more than he had expected. His own cock was achingly hard in his briefs, of course, but no matter; he was certain that bringing his demon to ecstasy was the most important thing right now. 

And all of the sudden his demon’s briefs were off, and Aziraphale took in the sight in wide-eyed wonder, marveling at how deliciously rigid Crowley’s cock was and how he wanted nothing more than to have his mouth on it, _immediately_. 

He licked a line down Crowley’s thigh, his breath ghosting on his demon’s cock, grinning at how he jerked at the sensation, and delighting in the heat radiating from his body. If demons could sweat, Aziraphale was positive that Crowley would be covered in a sheen of it; would be practically _glowing_ with it. 

The angel leaned in and gently gave the head of Crowley’s cock an open-mouthed kiss, and then, experimenting, ran his tongue gently around the head, murmuring in surprised delight at the slightly salty, musky taste. Placing one hand on Crowley’s stomach to steady himself, his nails pressing just enough to leave crescent-shaped marks on his skin, he took his other hand and ran his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock, fascinated at how easily he could make his demon twitch.

He heard a strangled sound from above and looked up, eyebrows raised. “Alright, my love?” he gently asked, and Crowley replied, his mouth open, practically panting, frantically nodding his head, eyes wild. “Don’t stop, angel, please don’t stop.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t planning to do anything of the sort. He smiled, looking down again, and dragged his tongue on the underside of Crowley’s cock - delighted in his demon’s grunts and gasps and breathy sighs as he set out to explore what made him tick. 

Things that made Crowley tick (a short, non-comprehensive list):

1\. Aziraphale’s hand gripping the base of his cock, gently squeezing and releasing, while tonguing the swollen, leaking head. Achingly, agonizingly slowly. (The sounds he made, good Lord or whomever, those _sounds_.

2\. The angel’s hand moving up and down his cock, slowly at first and then more quickly, while the other hand reached up to gently roll a nipple in his fingertips. The hissing intake of breath that Crowley released was sinfully arousing **,** and Aziraphale had to make a conscious effort to lift his hips up in order to not grind them against the bed and distract himself. 

3\. When Crowley’s cock was fully in his mouth and he was hollowing his cheeks and taking his demon as deep as he could - Aziraphale’s _hmmmm_ of pleasure and the vibration from his throat brought a growl from Crowley, and a frenzied litany of curses, intermixed with pleas of “don’t stop” and what sounded very much like “Fuck, I love you.” 

4\. Aziraphale’s wings, which had settled forward upon his demon’s torso, gently wrapping him in a sort of cocoon of angelic pleasure. The feel of feathers on his skin and running through his fingers, combined with the sensations of Aziraphale’s hands and mouth, seemed to heighten tenfold every sensation Crowley was experiencing. 

5\. Aziraphale’s hands exploring Crowley’s body while his mouth was otherwise occupied - running a finger along the cleft of his arse, feeling the muscles there clench; digging his fingers bruisingly into his demon’s hips to steady himself when Crowley started hitching upwards, and gripping his demon’s hand when he reached for it, squeezing tightly when Crowley came, a strangled-sounding “ _‘Zira_!” escaping from his mouth as the angel swallowed his release, his throat working to ensure he didn’t spill a single drop. 

Aziraphale hadn’t known exactly what to do, really, he had just let his body finally give in to all the things he had never quite let himself imagine, and trusted that his demon would let him know if he liked it or not. And _Lord_ , or Satan, or Someone - every single kiss he placed on Crowley’s body, every time his fingers or mouth had touched him, every moan and muffled curse and shout … everything felt like a prayer, like reverence, like coming Home. And when Crowley was finally spent, and lay shuddering beneath him, the hand that was fisted in one of his wings slowly releasing pressure, the angel had nestled himself into his neck and whispered into the rapid but steadying pulse just below the surface of the skin: “My darling demon.” 

Minutes later, when the deep breathing and serene look on his demon’s face confirmed the fact that he had fallen asleep, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled a blanket for the both of them, willing his wings back to whatever ethereal plane they resided in order to get even closer to Crowley. He shifted himself and curled into his demon’s side and listened to his breathing, reveling in the warmth coming from both of their bodies and the palpable glow of love that permeated the whole room. 

Suddenly feeling bone-weary (a sensation that was also new and surprising, as the amount of times he had willingly slept over the past centuries could be counted on both hands), he closed his eyes and breathed in Crowley’s gunmetal scent, allowing his mind to drift. His cheeks pinked at the thoughts that drifted in his mind: his own cock between Crowley’s kiss-swollen lips, his demon looking up at him through his long lashes; his fingers flexing in Crowley’s body while his demon touched himself, the length of his body shuddering as they both brought him closer to the brink. 

He could hardly wait for Crowley to wake up, for his pliant warm body to reach for him, to hold onto those lightly freckled shoulders (and run his tongue along those freckles) and kiss his demon again and again as he thrust into him, until they were one body and soul and spirit. But for now, he knew they should rest, because they had all the time in the world with which to enjoy one another.

* * *

Aziraphale was having a very nice dream. He was naked, his body pressed against the warmth of Crowley’s, his demon’s fingers stroking up and down the length of his spine. His golden curls pillowed underneath him, he nuzzled further into Crowley, inhaling deeply and sighing in contentment. If he could stay like this for ever, in this perfect dream, he gladly would. 

And then his eyes snapped open when a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead. It wasn’t a dream: Crowley was right there, his hair falling into his eyes, looking at him. This was really happening, and the angel didn’t have to wish anymore.

Crowley smiled, his amber eyes hooded and soft. “G’morning, love.” His voice was slow and sleep-drowsy, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled in his chest at the sound of it. 

“I am surprised you are awake, dear.” Aziraphale smiled up at Crowley. The light coming through the window just gave a hint of sunlight, the sky a pale mix of grey and pink. “Have you been up for long?”

“Oh, long enough.” Crowley smiled, one hand now stroking the soft skin of the angel’s stomach while Aziraphale traced a hand over those freckled shoulders of his, thrilling at the sensation. “And y’know what I’ve done?”

“What, darling?” 

Crowley’s eyes sharpened and he grinned mischievously. “I’ve explored a bit, because I’m a demon, and I’m nosy. And you know what I found? Can’t imagine why you hid those fancy bell bottom trousers in the cabinet. When are you going to model those for me, hmmm?” 

A moment of mortified silence - Aziraphale’s hand stilled and all he could do was blink in astonishment. Then, finally, his laughter, a sudden outbreak of it, and they both were laughing until tears came into their eyes, holding onto one another, their bodies shaking with glee and relief. 

Aziraphale was nothing if not contrary, and he had never been happier about it.


End file.
